


Don Dreino (Tipsy)

by 4Lorn



Series: Sut en Jus (Dust and Blood) [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Drunk Lexa, F/F, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Polis, Post-Mount Weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 01:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17315780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4Lorn/pseuds/4Lorn
Summary: Lexa had gotten don dreino three specific times after becoming Commander. The first was because of a day. The second was because of an event. The third was because of a person.





	Don Dreino (Tipsy)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last of my pre-written pieces, so following updates will probably be a little more slow. That being said, the tone of the pieces from here on out may be a bit different from the previous ones. I'm writing these about a year after the others so my style will most likely have changed, knowing me.

_Don Dreino_

(Tipsy)

 

It is already dark out when Lexa ducks out of the tower, but the air is still warm and dewy. The summer is deep, the forest alive. The crickets are chirping and the _luminou_ are glowing brightly, throwing bluish-white shadows through the trees.

But Lexa notices none of this.

She starts off down the street. Her night guards move to follow her, but she waves them off. They hesitate, glancing at each other, but Lexa’s nerves are frayed and anger is one of the few emotions she is more than happy to show right now.

“ _Bak op!”_ she snarls at them

With a quick, frantic nod, they both murmur _‘heda’_ and back away, heads bowed. Lexa turns her back on them and continues on. She heads south. She knows where she is going. She has been to the place, it was just never for the intent for which it was built like it is tonight.

There are a few armored men and women stripped of furs who greet her with ‘ _heda’_ and a nod as they pass her, but save for them, the streets of Polis are mostly empty. Most of Lexa’s people are preparing for the Sheepskin Festival, as well as taking a night of drinking off so that they can go at it twice as hard during the festival. It is one of the only reasons Lexa is out here tonight.

Aside from her rage and the black hole growing in her chest, of course.

Lexa arrives at her destination and shoves the door open. As she had hoped, there are a grand total of three men in the room. One is passed out on the floor, another staring down into his mug, too drunk to register his surroundings. The third is watching them both lazily from behind the _poul_ , drinking water from a dirty cup. He looks up at her when she enters, the beginnings of a greeting leaving his mouth before he recognizes her. When he does, his eyes widen and he nearly drops his cup.

“ _H- heda,”_ he stutters, straightening. “What are you doing here?”

“ _Rai_ ,” Lexa replies, sitting down in one of the splintering wooden stools in front of the _poul._ “I am here for a drink. You promised me one.”

For a long moment, Rye doesn’t seem to be able to process that. Never before has she come in his _poul_ for what it was made for. The first time she showed up here was for the slavers, the second for Oren. For once, she is here because she wants what the _poul_ can actually offer.

Rye seems to realize this. A smile splits his face and he nods firmly, despite her being _heda_ , and despite her showing up here the night before the Sheepskin Festival. “What would you like, _heda?”_ he asks, grinning. “Whiskey? Rum? Or maybe yet another extremely angry man?”

Lexa smiles slightly even as her heart constricts in pain. It is a good joke, and Rye always had a way of bringing out a tiny smile from Lexa with his jokes, even when they were children still living in Imor. But this is the last place Lexa saw Oren alive. If she had known…

“Cider,” Lexa says. Rye nods gladly and ambles deeper in the _poul_ to get her glass.

Lexa knows Rye, has known him for a long time. He lived in the same village as her before she was called to take command. Several years after she had been brought to Polis, she had met him in the streets, and they had caught up, if just a little. Lexa had discovered he worked in a _poul_ on the southern edge of Polis, and remembering his debt to her, he had promised her free service when he owned the _poul_ himself. Lexa figures tonight is as good as any to make good on that vow.

“ _Yu drein, heda_ ,” he says, setting her glass down in front of her.

“ _Mochof, Rai,”_ she thanks him. She takes a sip, tasting the lightest touch of alcohol on her tongue. It has been years since she has drinken, and the Sheepskin Festival begins the next morning. Lexa knows she cannot miss it, no matter how much she wishes to, so she decides to stay light tonight.

However, that doesn’t stop her from finishing the cider in mere minutes, and soon, she finds herself asking Rye for another. He gifts her with one almost gladly. As Lexa continues to drink, the cider slowly taking the edges off the world, Rye moves about. He is trying to keep himself busy with what little there is to do in the empty _poul._ He tries to brush it off whenever she looks at him knowingly, but as the night progresses, concern begins to shine in his eyes.

When Anya finally finds Lexa, the moon has passed the center of the sky and Rye is looking extremely uncomfortable, but he knows he can say nothing. After all, she is his _heda_. The world has begun buzzing around Lexa a little bit, but she still recalls her own _Gadlouma_ and how she had felt the morning after. She can more than control herself with this little bit of alcohol, though her emotions feel a little looser.

There is the sound a door opening at the back. Lexa looks up from her cup, but it takes her almost two seconds to register Anya leaning on the _poul_ beside her, watching her carefully. “ _Onya,”_ she remarks, only somewhat surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“ _Leksa_ ,” she replies. “I am here to escort you back to you tent.”

Lexa narrows her eyes at her former mentor. The way she phrases her words is for Rye’s sake, she knows, but Anya is not here to escort her back to her tent. She is here to drag her back.

“And if I wish to stay?” Lexa tests, lifting her cup back to her lips.

Anya just manages to not glower at her, but there is an angry fire in her eyes that Lexa remembers well from her childhood. “You are _heda,”_ she tells Lexa, but Lexa knows the real meaning in the dangerous tone of her words.

Rye stands frozen behind the _poul,_ his eyes darting from Lexa to Anya and back again as they stare each other down. Lexa drinks the rest of the contents left in her cup, not breaking eye contact with Anya. She reaches into her belt and pulls out a few gold coins, and slaps them on the top the _poul_.

“ _Heda,”_ Rye protests. “There is no need to-”

“Take it, Rye,” Lexa orders, still not looking away from Anya. “I will ask for the vow another time.”

Rye looks like he wants to argue more, but he must know it is both pointless and highly disrespectful, so he simply nods and scoops the coins. He looks pale and weary. Though Lexa knows she did not need to pay in the first place, she has given him more than two times the amount she drank. It is enough she can do to repay him for all the destruction she has caused to his business in the past.

“Are you ready, _heda?_ ” Anya asks, voice sickly sweet.

Lexa’s smirk is nasty. “ _Sha.”_

The two of them silently leave the _poul,_ Anya not even holding the door open for Lexa, the most she dares to do in public. She leads her down the streets of Polis, back towards the twoer. When the two of them arrive at their destination, it is to two panicked-looking guards. When they spot them, their faces melt into relieved expression, but soon turn back to alarm with the look that Anya sends them both.

The tense ride up is silent the entire way. Then they are in Lexa’s room. Anya keeps walking, all the way to the back, where she stops and stares at the wall. Lexa knows she is angry. Without saying anything, she unbuckles her coat and shoulder guard and drops them to the floor. She makes her way to the table, maps strewn about the surface. She leans onto it with her palms, making the table creak. That small sound is what makes Anya turn around, and her expression is furious.

“Why were you in that _poul?”_ Anya demands. “The day before _Gadlouma_ no less? What were you thinking?”

Lexa glares at her. “I do not follow orders from you, _Onya.”_

“You are my _heda_ ,” Anya agrees. “But you were also once my second. I know you, _Leksa_.”

Lexa sighs. She is tired. Her eyes droop and her head feels stuffed with cotton, and her heart is beating but dead, and her soul is slumped inside her chest.

Lexa lets her chin drop until it is hanging over the table and maps. She closes her eyes. “Rosto is dead.”

Anya’s eyes widen, then narrow. “How do you know this?”

Lexa breathes out. “The River Clan ambassador told me in private this morning. An Ice Nation assassin. _Her_ ambassador denied it, of course, but you know as well as I who would benefit most from this.”

Anya hisses in distaste. “She means to destroy the Coalition.”

Lexa nods. “Rosto had no blood heirs. The leadership has been passed down to his adopted nephew. The River Clan is no longer blood-bound to the Coalition.”

Anya is scowling as she demands, “Why did you not hold a meeting for this after you received the news?”

“I have to figure out what I am going to do!” Lexa snaps back. The alcohol in the back of her throat is making her words and emotions fiery and loose. “The new chief is close to Rosto, yes, but he is also young and impressionable. If his council decides to break itself from the Coalition…”

“ _Mou wor,”_ Anya murmurs. She stretches her back like a _kat_ and leans heavily on the table. She looks up at Lexa with warm concern in her eyes that makes Lexa bite her lip. “There is something else.” It is not a question.

Lexa jerks her arms off the table but does not move her feet. She stares hard at the maps strewn beneath her, as if they will confess her secrets for her if she glares at them long enough.

“Tomorrow makes two years.”

Anya’s eyes immediately soften. It was no wonder the date has slipped her mind, as she bore the brunt of preparing Polis for the Sheepskin Festival. But Lexa would never - _could never -_ forget.

Anya straightens and makes her way around the table to Lexa. She stops just in front of her, opposite shoulders touching. Then she reaches up and wraps her right arm around Lexa’s shoulders, around the back of her neck, her palm on Lexa’s right shoulder blade.

“Costia would be proud of how far you have come,” Anya murmurs.

Lexa keeps her gaze trained straight ahead. “Nia killed her. She killed her and I could not even give her the promise of justice.”

Anya is silent for a long moment. Then she answers, “It was for the Coalition. It’s what she would have wanted. You know how much she wanted peace.”

Lexa closes her eyes and buries her nose into the crook of Anya’s shoulder, letting out a strangled half-sob. They stay like that for a long few minutes, Anya silent and Lexa swallowing hard to keep the blackness that lives in her chest from crawling out of her throat and destroying everything she has ever worked for. When Lexa feels like she can breathe again without vomiting, she takes a deep, steadying breath.

“ _Hodnes laik kwelnes,”_ she whispers, voice hoarse.

Lexa lifts her head from Anya’s shoulder and she begins to draw her arm away. She cups the back of Lexa’s neck for a long moment, looking her in the eye. Then she lets go and glides past Lexa, striding out of the room.

Lexa does not watch her go.

* * *

 

The fourth time Lexa shows up in Rye’s _poul_ , it is not long after the celebrations have ended, having lasted four days to celebrate the return of their people from Mount Weather. She has already dismissed her guard to join in the feasts, and many of the usual men and women who inhabit the _poul_ have spent all their drinking money on the feast. Lexa knows this, so it is this night, the night after the celebrations have ended, that she allows herself to open the door and sit down in front of Rye.

He sees her, sees the way she sits and the way her shoulders are stiff and her eyes emotionless. He sees this, and rather than pretend to be surprised, his eyes soften the tiniest bit. But all he asks is, “What would you like tonight, _heda?”_ because he knows she doesn’t want pity and she doesn’t want to talk.

“Whiskey,” Lexa replies immediately. She does not intend to watch over the world tonight.

Rye takes that in, what it means, and nods. He turns to the back of the _poul_ and comes back with mug full of whiskey. He places it on the counter in front of her and departs to begin cleaning the tables and waking the few unconscious civilians still slumped in their chairs. Not bothering to care, Lexa throws back the drink, the burning as it goes down making her eyes water. She manages not to cough, and honestly, at this point in time, she does not care.

Rye returns thrice to refill her cup before Lexa finds herself looking up at the ceiling, the world blurry and her limbs fuzzy. Rye has kicked all his other patrons out and now leans back against the _poul_ , cleaning one of his few glass cups.

“ _Rai_ ,” Lexa slurs. He glances over, reaches over, refills her cup, and returns it before he answers her.

“Yes, _heda?”_

“You…” Lexa has to remember what she needs to say though images of blue eyes. “You cannot tell anyone of this.”

“I know this, _heda._ You have my word.”

Lexa nods, and then smiles bitterly. “Have your word. It is funny, how easy it is to make promises and not keep them.”

“ _Heda,”_ he says, brow furrowed in worry. “I swear on-”

“No need,” Lexa interrupts, waving him off. “It is not you I’m talking about.”

Rye is silent. She can tell, even through the blurs in her eyes, that he is trying to hold his tongue. But his curiosity gets the better of him. “Who do you speak of then, _heda?”_

“Myself,” Lexa answers, almost immediately. She swallows. “Words are only words, and deals only deals. Even blood cannot bind forever. They are all broken when the situation changes, and we tear each other apart just to stay alive. To survive.”

“But it is survival, _heda.”_ Rye seems unsure of what she is getting at.

Lexa looks at him, an eyebrow arched lazily. “What is the point of survival if you have nothing to live for?”

Rye is looking almost afraid now. “Do you have a reason to live, _heda?”_ he doesn’t sound like he wants to hear the answer.

Lexa nods. “Oh, yes. I do. My people are the reason. My Coalition.” Lexa nearly chokes on that word.

“And who lives for you, _heda?”_

“My people,” Lexa repeats quietly. “My Coalition.” She pauses. “And you, Rye?”

Rye smiles, gaze drifting off. “My wife. And my son. He was born just a few months ago, but I would do anything for him.” He looks at Lexa. “Do you have one such at that, _heda?”_

Lexa looks away, eyes stinging. “I used to. You know that.”

“And now?”

Lexa blinks hard. She is looking at her, eyes and heart shattering, begging, pleading, don’t go, don’t do this. _Please._ She asked her what she planned to do after it was over, asked her to come to Polis with her, give her people a chance, give _her_ a chance. But it is always head over heart, _heda_ over heart, and she is turning away, turning away from desperate blonde hair and blue eyes. Blonde hair and blue eyes. Blonde hair and blue-

“No,” Lexa says, and downs the rest of her cup.

* * *

 

It is the fifth, but far from the final time Lexa joins Rye at his _poul_ that she comes because of a person and not an event.

“ _Heda_ ,” Rye says with a large grin when he sees her. “I was beginning to worry I would no longer receive your business. You pay so well.”

Lexa pretends to glare at him, but he knows she really doesn’t mean it. She sit down in front of the _poul_. As with all the other times, Lexa has ensured she is alone in her endeavors for the most part, but there is a single man sitting in the corner. He is lucid, so he must not be too far into his cup. When she looks at him, he nods respectfully and murmurs, _“Heda.”_

“What shall I get you this fine evening, _heda?”_ Rye asks.

“Cider, _beja, Rai_.”

Rye nods with a smile and turns away to get her order. When he turns back, he hands her her mug and asks, “Going light tonight?”

Lexa nods. “I simply needed to get away.”

Rye nods in return. Now that he has seen her actually attempt to get _don dreino,_ he knows the difference between that and simply drinking to get a break. Last time she had come here, shortly after the Mountain, he had been the one to guide her to the door and point her in the direction of the tower.

Rye departs to check on the man in the corner and quickly returns with a rag thrown over his shoulder. “How are you, _heda?”_ he asks her.

Lexa quirks a brow at him. “I am well, Rye.” It is not the truth. She is far from fine. “And you?”

“I am wonderful, _heda. Mochof._ ” With that, he turns from her, seeming to understand that she would rather be left alone at the moment. It is several cups of cider later and Lexa is starting to soften, her worries and frustration, coming to the forefront of her mind. Blonde hair and blue eyes.

Lexa sighs under her breath. She is tired, her heart constantly fighting against her head. Ever since Lexa saw Clarke again after the Mountain, they have been beaten and battered with Lexa’s painful uncertainty. After everything that has happened, everything she has learned of Clarke and what she is capable of, Lexa cannot seem to stop it. This constant twisting in her gut when she is around Clarke, the guilt of her decision, the relief at her safety… All of this is a reminder that Clarke is not exactly...forgiving, and Lexa was never good at asking for forgiveness from the heart.

Rye refills her cup and is wiping the _poul_ down when the door swings open.  He looks up with a greeting on his lips and his eyes widen, much as they did the first three times Lexa came here. He stutters a little, his eyes dart to Lexa. There is a sigh behind her, and she turns to look at the newcomer.

“Found you,” Clarke grumbles. “Finally.”

“Clarke,” Lexa utters, trying to tamp down the sudden explosion in her gut. “What are you doing here?”

“ _Wanheda_ ,” Rye all but whispers. Clarke’s eyes flicker in revulsion at the title and she looks at him, suspicious. Rye clears his throat. “Would you like anything to drink?”

Clarke looks him up and down, making him shift uncomfortably. Lexa knows how her people view Clarke after the fall of the Mountain. She glances down at Lexa’s cup, snorts, and then says, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Rye swallows and nods, all but scuttling into the back of the _poul_. His body language reminds Lexa of the first time she came in here looking for the slavers.

“I was looking everywhere for you,” Clarke tells Lexa, sitting in the stool beside her. “I had to ask what few people I could find if they saw you. Then I find you at a bar of all places.”

Lexa looks at her curiously, the alcohol loosening her tongue and making her ask, “What is a…bar?” The word sounds strange passing her lips.

Clarke gives her a dubious look. Once she realizes she is not joking, she sighs and gestures to the room as a whole, then pats the _poul_.

“Ah,” Lexa says. “You mean the _poul._ ”

“Yeah, sure,” Clarke grumbles. “If that’s what you call it.”

Rye scurries forward and slides the cider in front of Clarke. He stands there awkwardly for a moment as she sips from her cup. After a long moment passes and he has still not left, both her and Lexa raise their eyebrows at him. He gets the hint and nods quickly, hurrying away to check on the man in the corner.

“Why are you here, Clarke?” Lexa asks, almost tiredly. She had come here to get away from Clarke, not to have the blonde follow her.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Clarke replies over the rim of her cup. She is watching Lexa like she so often does now, with a sad and distrustful but curious gaze. Lexa is only glad it is no longer the hostile glare she received the first time they reunited.

Lexa turns away without answering, looking straight ahead and she drink from her cup. There is no need for her to answer anyways; Clarke already knows why she is here.

Clarke watches her a moment more, then turns forward too. After a long moment of silence, she clears her throat. “I, um…” Lexa glances over and Clarke sighs, pushing onward. “I wanted to ask about the... _Gadlouma.”_ With how much of their language she has learned already, it almost makes Lexa want to laugh with how she stumbles over the word. But Clarke would turn away and leave if she did that, so she holds it back. “I’ve been hearing a lot of people talk about it, and I assumed it was soon, but... “ She takes another drink, trying to cover her awkwardness. “What exactly is it?”

Lexa swallows hard, trying not to smile in victory. It isn’t much, but it is enough. Every small victory counts in times like these for Lexa, especially where Clarke is concerned.

“In your language it can be translated to the Sheepskin Festival,” Lexa answers, and Clarke turns to her. “It is a coming-of-age ceremony. Each second who has finished their tutelage beneath a mentor in the year since the previous _Gadlouma_ comes to the festival to receive the tattoo and pelt that officially signifies this. It is a time of great celebration.”

Clarke nods, understanding now. She peers closely at Lexa. “Did you have a... _Gadlouma?”_

Lexa replies, “I did. Two years before becoming Commander.”

“How old were you?”

Lexa looks away. “Ten”

Clarke seems to find that hard to believe. “You became Commander at twelve?” she asks incredulously.

Lexa nods and Clarke quickly seems to accept that. She feels an odd mix of pride and guilt. Clarke is much more adapted to Earth and their ways than the first time Lexa met her, though most of that may have been the death of Finn and the Mountain, both of which were partly Lexa’s fault.

“Thirteen, huh?” Clarke laughs bitterly and downs the rest of her cider. She stands and throws a coin onto the counter. “Talk about a hell of a lot more than survival,” she quips with an understanding smirk at Lexa. Then she turns away and strides out of the _poul._

Rye wanders back to Lexa and pockets the money that Clarke left behind. He is eyeing the door after her warily as he asks, “Has she always been like that?”

Lexa turns back to the counter. “No, not always.” But the one thing the blonde has always done is wear her heart on her sleeve. If it weren’t for Clarke and all she is, Lexa would say it is that which is killing her slowly.

She looks up at Rye and taps the rim of her cup. “I’d rather have whiskey now, Rye. _Mochof._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> "Bak op!" - Get back!  
> Luminou - glowing flowers  
> poul - bar  
> "Mou war." - More war.  
> "Cider, beja, Rai." - Cider, please, Rye.


End file.
